


Like a Picture Print by Currier & Ives

by armadillosunset



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Established Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Funny, Happy Ending, Humor, Knitting, Louis Tomlinson Loves Harry Styles, M/M, Niall means well, Quote: They kind of share that really (One Direction), Teacher Louis Tomlinson, always wanted to use that tag, chef Zayn, christmas sweater, harry works in a bakery, very minor smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armadillosunset/pseuds/armadillosunset
Summary: “What thrift store clearance bin did you pull that atrocity out of?” Niall wheezes, doubling over from laughing so hard.They all stand there, holding their collective breaths in that moment. Everyone except Niall, whose laughter is the only sound in the entire flat — the entire building, the entire universe at this moment.“Didn’t know we were doing an ugly sweater party this year! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”—Every year, for as long as they’ve been dating, Harry knits his boyfriend, Louis, a sweater. And every year, Harry hopes for a ring on his finger in return.Maybe this is the year Harry finally gets what he wants.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 216
Collections: 1D Christmas Fest 2020





	Like a Picture Print by Currier & Ives

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAHHHH! I’m so excited to be in my first fic fest! 
> 
> All the prompts were wonderful, and there were so many to choose from, but I got really REALLY excited when I saw this one:
> 
> “Prompt J — Person A has recently learned to knit and makes a very ugly sweater for Person B for Christmas. Person B doesn’t have the heart to tell A they don’t like the sweater and wear it to dinner anyway.”
> 
> I dabble in the knit/crochet/fiber world myself so I was super stoked to get this prompt and be able to bring it to life. I hope I did it justice for whoever submitted the prompt suggestion, and I hope you all like it too!
> 
> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and stay safe everyone <3

Every year, for as long as they’ve been together, Harry knits his boyfriend a sweater for the holidays.

The first one was a spur of the moment idea that came to him one day in the middle of his history class, as his teacher droned endlessly on about the fall of the Roman Empire. They had only been dating for a month by then, but a sweater seemed like the greatest possible gift. It was unique. It was heartfelt. It showed his love and admiration for the older boy he was alreadyhopelessly head over heels in love with. He worked on it day and night, and was still weaving in the ends as Gemma drove him to spend Christmas Eve with the Tomlinsons that year.

Some years he’s adventurous, taking his time and playing with colors and motifs in the sweater. Other years (like the year he got the flu and ended up having to reschedule two weeks of assignments and take his finals only days before Christmas) he goes for a simple, solid color chunky pullover.

This year he already knows what he’s making, has known since May when he saw the gorgeous golden straw color right as he stepped into one of the tents at a wool festival in the States. The moment he touched it, the yarn begged to be a sweater — something with cables, yes, oh and saddle shoulders too. A cardigan, definitely a cardigan, with wooden buttons, and _pockets_.

When Louis had picked one of the hanks up, bringing it to eye level and turning it this way and that, trying to see why Harry had been gazing at it longingly, Harry knew the yarn would become a yet another sweater for his boyfriend.

“This one?” Louis asked with a raised brow, and Harry nodded with a childish grin as he clutched the yarn to his chest.

Louis replied with a murmured “fine” as he dug his credit card out from his wallet and made his way to the tent’s makeshift register.

And if Louis unknowingly ended up paying for the yarn for his sweater that day, well, that was his own fault for losing a bet as to whether or not Harry could get their hotel room upgraded for free with a few bats of his eyes at the young and pretty front desk clerk. Louis ought to have known better, really, considering he falls for Harry’s charm on a near daily basis.

💚🧶💙

It’s a chilly October Saturday when Harry comes home from his morning run to a peculiar situation.

“Harry? That you?”

He doesn’t even have time to close the door as Louis’ voice rings out across the flat, the squeak of the door hinge giving him away.

“Who else would it be?” He half mutters to himself with a smile as he toes off his shoes and tosses his keys in the little dish on the side table by the door before making his way further inside. It’s just the two of them now, Liam having moved almost a year ago — though Harry has the sneaking suspicion that Niall kept a spare set of keys to the flat from his short stint of sleeping on their couch, solely for raiding the cupboards while he and Louis are on holiday.

He rounds the corner to the living room, only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

“Thank fuck you’re home. I could use a hand here.”

Harry wants to say something — really, he does — but all he can really manage is a honk of laughter as he doubles over. He’s fully aware of Louis’ disapproving glare from where he’s sat on their coffee table, tangled up in at least three different colors of yarn.

“What were you even doing?” Harry asks as he gasps for breath. “How did you even do this?”

Louis just rolls his eyes. “Stop asking stupid questions and help me already!” He tries to move an arm but is bound by the string, settling instead for flipping a bird from where his hand is trapped by his leg. “And if you so much as attempt to ‘give me a hand’ by clapping your hands or even think about making a joke about bondage I am divorcing you. Period.”

“We aren’t married though,” Harry smirks as he picks up one of the balls of yarn near his feet — a nice, buttery yellow — and winds his way closer to his boyfriend. ‘ _Yet_ ’ he silently adds on. Not married _yet_. Eight years of dating his best friend and there still wasn’t a ring on Harry’s finger — though he wasn’t complaining.  
  


“Then we’ll get married that way I can turn around and divorce you before the ink is even dry.”

“Pretty sure that’s an annulment.” Harry’s close enough now where he gives a peck to the man’s cheek, passing the ball of yarn behind his back. “Besides, you would never.”

Louis grumbles something along the lines of ‘watch me, Styles’, but remains quiet as Harry continues the task of untangling the yarn (and fishing the other two balls out from under the couch) (and when was the last time they vacuumed under here — sheesh, the dust bunnies...).

Eight years was quite a long time to love a single person, in Harry’s opinion, especially when they’re the first person you ever well and truly loved. But he wouldn’t trade a moment of his time with Louis for anything — wouldn’t give up a single kiss or cuddle or silent argument over who got the last bit of ice cream. Louis was his everything, and Harry was beyond grateful he found the love of his life on the first try.

He can still remember the day they met, when he was an innocent sixteen year old boy and his mum dragged him along to do the weekly shop — completely against his will, mind you. She had sent him to the next aisle over to fetch a bag of rice and, being the klutz he was, he rounded the corner and walked face first into the bum of an employee on a step ladder stocking the shelves.

(Little did he know then that that wouldn’t be the last time his face would be in that particular boy’s bum.)

“Oops! Shit! Sorry!” Harry scrambled to steady the young man as he wobbled, clutching the shelf for dear life.

The boy in question was ready to tell Harry off for being so utterly careless, except all he could manage as he looked down — with the most beautiful eyes Harry had ever seen to this day — was a breathy, “hi.”

It was Gemma who finally got them together, weeks later.

“I’m sick of driving you to the grocery store every other day just so you can gawk at and fond over this... this...” she waved her hand at Louis as Harry wanted nothing more than for the dingy tile floor to open up and swallow him already, “scrawny thing. The two of you need to work something out already.”

“You just... you make it look so easy, Haz.”

Louis’ voice pulls Harry back to the present, and back to the balls of yarn he had somehow managed to continue to untangle and wind up as he reminisced. Louis is mostly free of the string now, though he remains seated on the piece of furniture, staring down as his fingers pick at the cuff of his sweater.

As Harry tugs at the purple string in his hand, he dislodges something from under Louis’s thigh, the glint of metal catching his eye as it falls to the floor, the purple string attached. He reels the item in like a fishing line until it’s in his hands: one of his pairs of circular knitting needles — from the good set Louis had bought him last year for their anniversary.

“Knitting?” Harry offers up as he eyes the purple — well, ‘blob’ is the most fitting term for whatever the heck this is that’s going on with the string on the needle. This one isn’t even yarn from his stash, he realizes — too scratchy, too plastic-y, too... _acrylic_.

“Yeah,” Louis lifts his head, his eyes apologetically gazing up at Harry. “You make it look so easy when we’re just sitting here watching tv and you’re clicking away. And you make such great things — you make me such great things — and I just thought... I dunno. I thought maybe I’d just give it a whirl, see what’d happen. I was curious. Wanted to try.” He mumbles the last bit as his eyes fall once more.

Harry can feel his heart swell as Louis’ words hit him.

He’s been knitting since he was a boy, when his nan taught him. Well, technically she was trying to teach Gemma, but being the annoying little brother he was he would purposely hang around during their lessons. Gemma quickly lost patience and gave up, opting for other, more logical things (her words). Harry was mesmerized by the whole process — of turning a simple bit of string into hats and socks and blankets. And so he kept at it, studying every knit and purl he made on the needles.

He loves the whole process: finding that perfect combination of yarn and pattern (and shopping for said perfect yarn — he’s been known to make international trips for fiber festivals, to which Louis just rolls his eyes and packs his own carry-on anyway), slowly watching his work come to life stitch by stitch and row by row, and finally being able to hold up whatever he was making and think ‘I did that’.

And now he has the opportunity to share all this with Louis? Harry couldn’t contain himself.  
  


Harry’s response to Louis’ confession is lunging at him, tackling him to the floor off the coffee table.

“What the — I think I landed on a ball of — Harry!”

But Harry doesn’t listen, too busy peppering his boyfriend’s face with kisses as his hands draw the small body in closer.

“Harold!”

“You want to?” He asks, ignoring the outburst and pulling his face back just enough to gaze into Louis’ eyes, a grin creeping across his face. “You really want to? Learn to knit?”

“I — um — I — yeah. I do.” Louis stumbles on his words as he lays pinned to the floor.

Knowing the man as he does (and Harry does, it’s been eight years after all), Louis thinks this altercation is going to go in a certain direction — which, later. There’s more pressing matters than what’s slowly digging into his thigh right now.

“Then let’s go!” Harry jumps up in a single fluid motion, pulling the smaller man up with him and toward the door.

“Go?” Louis tries to dig his heels into the floor, but with only socked feet he just slides as Harry pulls him. “Go where?”

“We need supplies! Yarn! Needles! Notions!”

“Supplies?!” Louis gently smacks Harry’s head and pulls his Vans from where Harry is kneeling and trying to put them on his feet. “‘M twenty-six, I can tie my own damn shoes, thank you. But anyway. You literally turned Liam’s room into a yarn fortress. What do you mean, ‘we need supplies’?”

Harry rolls his eyes as he grabs his keys. Honestly, it was like Louis didn’t even know him. “That’s my yarn, Lou. You need your own — and not whatever shit that was you were tangled up in. Good yarn.”

“You just want an excuse to go shopping don’t you.”

“...maybe.”

💚🧶💙

Louis’ lessons didn’t go as well as Harry had anticipated (not that he was hoping for Louis to pick it all up second nature and they’d be sipping their morning coffee on Sundays and knitting like a cutesy couple or anything — Nope, definitely not). It wasn’t that Louis was bad, he certainly put the effort in and was giving it his best. He just kept getting frustrated at small mistakes — looping the yarn when switching between knits and purls, dropping stitches, accidentally increasing — those sorts of things.

So as much as Harry was looking forward to spending his future knitting and sharing crafting experiences with his boyfriend (and husband... maybe... hopefully), he was honestly a bit relieved when Louis had stopped showing interest by the end of the month.

They return to their normal lives, their normal habits and routines as if none of it ever happened. Harry wonders about it sometimes, if he could have done something different, if he could have been a better teacher for Louis.

But now really isn’t the time to think about that, as he lays in bed, Louis sucking yet another bruise into his shoulder. Harry lets out a soft whine, his back arching just a bit as his thoughts switch to thinking that, yes, his boyfriend’s fingers have got to be the eighth wonder of the damn world.

“Like that, don’t you?” Harry can hear the smirk in the man’s voice before lips slowly trail their way up his neck, finding his own.

They kiss a bit more as Louis finishes his work (god, Harry hates how he’s so thorough sometimes, turning him into a writhing mess). Soon enough, Harry finds himself lifting his hips, trying to hurry up what comes next.

“Mm, condoms.” Louis murmurs, still attempting to kiss Harry senseless. “Both of us. I just washed the sheets this afternoon. Would like to go at least one day before we dirty them up.”

Harry just nods his head, still kissing as he blindly reaches down under their bed for the shoebox filled with their dirty secrets (well, the most used ones, anyway — the rest are on the top shelf of the closet). His fingers graze across what feels like a plastic shopping bag while in search of the box.

“What the...?” Harry mutters as he grabs the item in question, a soft crinkling noise filling the room as he tugs it out.

“Shit! No, Harry, wait—!” Louis suddenly shouts, scrambling to disentangle himself only to fall to the floor with a loud thud. He quickly crawls back, swatting Harry’s hand and snatching the bag, of which Harry only catches a flash of white plastic..

“Don’t look!” Louis snaps as he stands, clutching the bag to his naked form and scurrying from the room, leaving Harry to stare at the doorway, mouth gaping in confusion.

Because what the hell just happened?

Louis returns a few minutes later — sans mysterious bag — smiling as he crawls back up onto the bed.

“What—.”

“Shh,” Louis kisses him as he straddles his waist. “Don’t worry about it.” He’s using his seductive voice, Harry realizes, trying to distract him from the elephant formerly in the room.

“But Lou—.”

“I know we were going in a different direction,” Louis murmurs, ignoring Harry’s attempts at questioning, still with the kissing, “but how about I ride you?” Kiss. “I know you like that.” Another kiss. “Me riding you.”

As curious as Harry is, Louis rarely ever makes that offer — leaving him no choice but to oblige to such efforts of distraction.

He’ll figure out the mysterious bag thing later.  
  


💚🧶💙

Harry promptly forgets about the whole situation as life tailspins with the holiday season fast approaching. Work has gotten hectic, with people starting to put in their holiday orders and Louis being his usual nearing-end-of-term ball-of-nerves with his students’ marks. Harry decides to relieve their stresses with a bit of baking one afternoon — only to be left staring down at an annoying little boyfriend.

“Move, Lou.” He says for what feels like the hundredth time.

“You know, you work in a bakery, why do you insist on baking at home? Don’t you get burnt out of it all?” Louis retorts, crossing his arms as he continues to stand in front of the one cabinet door Harry needs to get in to.

“Because I don’t bake in the bakery. I do payroll and finances.” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. Louis is the elder between them, yet he can be so damn childish. “And last I checked, you enjoy eating what I bake.”

“I enjoy eating you.”

“Louis! Move!” Harry barks as he considers for a moment just picking the man up and moving him himself — but he still has the scar on his upper arm from the last time he did that and Louis bit him (actually _bit_ him, the little shit) and screamed bloody murder about being manhandled.

But Louis remains, stubborn as ever, blocking the cabinet door.

Harry takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Louis, please,” he pleads now. “I need to get into the cupboard.”

“What could you possibly need—.”

“Louis, I am making cinnamon rolls. I need flour. Flour that is in the cupboard you won’t let me open!”

“But do you really need it though? Have you considered—.”

“So help me Louis, if you don’t move in the next three seconds I am picking you up and moving your arse — bite risk or no.”

Louis scrunches his brows for a moment, as if to contemplate his options before finally caving. “Fine. But turn around first.”

“What?”

“Turn around. I gotta move something. Don’t want you to see.”

“I’m done playing your games—.”

“‘M not playing, Haz. Just turn around then I’ll move. Promise.”

If Harry hadn’t been dreaming of these damn cinnamon rolls for the last two days he’d just give up and walk away. But he wanted them — and badly — so with a sigh he turns around. There’s a shuffling behind him, a rustling before the slam of the wooden door, and the sound of Louis’ socked feet retreating.

Harry glances over his shoulder, casting a questioning gaze at the empty doorway before turning to the cabinet door.

He really needs to figure this out.

After cinnamon rolls.

💚🧶💙

Harry gets his opportunity a mere week later.

It’s the first weekend of December, and he and Louis have both woken up early out of anticipation for what the day holds.

They’re decorating the flat this weekend — a yearly tradition since they moved in together at the start of university — two whole days of nothing but Christmas decorations, Christmas music, and as many gingerbread lattes as their stomachs can handle (and, really, with as many boxes of Christmas decorations as they own, the only reason they manage to get everything done in a single weekend is _because_ he gives his already energetic Louis so much caffeine).

Harry loves Christmas almost as much as he loves Louis, who he eyes over breakfast as they dig in — the first steaming cups of the season at their elbows. He loves how the season puts every one in a good mood, how there’s cheer and goodwill rife in the air. He loves picking out the perfect presents for friends and family, and watching their faces light up as they open their gifts. He loves looking at holiday lights and store displays, caroling (well, the idea of it anyway) andholiday craft bazaars. He loves the smell of Christmas trees, of cookies in the oven, the taste of peppermint kisses in the evening.

And the fact that Louis’ birthday falls on Christmas Eve is the icing on the proverbial Christmas cookie.

“Done!” Louis shouts as his chair scrapes back, his plate clattering into the sink. Harry’s hot on his tail, leaving his own dishes on the table — because the last one to the storage closet has to put together the Christmas tree.

Obviously.

(It’s a pain in the arse, is what it is. They should really buy a new tree, this being a cheap one they found in a thrift shop their first Christmas living together as broke uni students. Most of the color dots on the limbs are worn off and it’s a guessing game as to what layer they belong to. But it’s their first tree, and it’s a rather nice tree once properly assembled, so they keep it. But next year they’re getting a new one, definitely next year...)

Harry’s long legs give him the advantage and he quickly catches up — helped immensely by the fact Louis stops dead in his tracks just as he’s about to reach the door. With a smug grin, Harry grips the knob to the door. “Ha! Looks like you’ve got another year of assembly —!”

“Harry, don’t.” A thin, cool hands wraps around Harry’s. He glances beside him, finding panicky blue eyes staring up at him. “Just, let me get something out first, yeah?”

“What?” Harry asks, not relinquishing his hold on the knob.

“There’s just — there’s something I —,” there’s a heavy sigh, “I put something in the closet so you wouldn’t find it and I need to move it before we can start decorating.”

“But you knew we were decorating!”

“I know, I know! I was going to move it last night but then we started the movie and we were comfy...” Louis trails off, his hand waving in the air. “Anyway, I’ll concede to assembling the blasted tree if you, I don’t know, go make us fresh lattes or something. Just give me a few minutes.”

“What are you even trying to hide anyway?”

Louis bites his lip, clearly considering his options as Harry stares back, brows furrowed in question.

“It’s your present, okay? And I’d really like it if you wouldn’t peek.” Louis finally caves, slumping his shoulders as his eyes roll back.

Harry pauses for a moment, but Louis wastes no time, gingerly pulling Harry’s hand from the door and placing it at his side. “Please, Harry. I’m begging here. Two minutes. That’s all.”

“You know, I like it when you beg.” Harry replies with a smirk as he hip-checks the man on his way past, ultimately deciding to comply.

“Yes, yes, I’ll give you that too. Just go.” Louis stations himself in front of the closet door, blocking any attempt at entry, not that Harry was planning on it.

It’s tempting though, as he stands in the kitchen, waiting for the little espresso machine to get brewing. Even more so as he hears the shuffling of boxes, the padding sound of Louis’ bare feet as he hurries across the room just on the other side of the wall. Harry so badly wants to turn around, to peek around the corner and find out what exactly necessitates this amount of secrecy.

Just as he’s ready to cave to his desires, the coffee finishes sputtering out and he flips the switch to begin warming the milk.

Another time, then.

💚🧶💙

“I just don’t understand,” Harry mutters as he mindlessly thumbs through a rack of dresses at the department store Gemma dragged him to. It’s the fifth one today and, honestly, all these dresses are starting to look the same from one store to another. “This is weird, even for Lou. Being so... secretive. It’s not like him. This?”

His sister’s head pops up from the next rack over, but instantly frowns before returning to her own search. “God no. It’s a family dinner, Harry, not cocktail hour.”

Harry sighs as he shoves the glittery garment back in place. “I mean, we don’t keep secrets Gem.” He pauses. “At least, I always thought we didn’t.”

“You’re seriously overthinking this. It’s just a present — he said so himself. End of story. You hide his, don’t you?”

“I keep them at Mum’s otherwise he’ll tear the flat apart trying to find them.” Harry gives a quick shudder as he recalls the not-so-fond memory of the first Christmas living with his boyfriend: of coming home from a grueling day of finals and finding the flat completely ransacked, thinking they had been robbed — but no, it was just Louis trying(and succeeding) to find his presents. “He never really goes through this much effort though. Just stashes it in his dresser and tells me not to look and I don’t.”

It also helps that Louis usually procrastinates and doesn’t do his shopping until days before the holiday in question.

“Maybe he’s finally asking you to marry him,” Gemma snorts from where she’s migrated to the next rack. “Paranoid you’ll find the ring. The boy’s always been a bit skittish, he has.”

“No, no way—.” Harry freezes, allowing himself the luxury of the thought for a moment. He’s wanted to marry Louis since he was a naive little sixteen year old blushing in the middle of the supermarket. Never had the nerve to bring it up until they were done with uni, and even then it was open ended: Harry tripping over his words and Louis giving the generic answers of ‘of course, someday’ and ‘I wouldn’t want anyone else’. But here they are, years later and still no ring.

But no. No. As much as Harry wants it all right now, for that to be the answer for Louis’ actions, it was impossible. “No. The bag or whatever it is is too big for a ring box, the one time I saw him carrying it.” He leaves out the part of Louis being completely stark naked at the time — his sister really doesn’t need to know that particular detail.

“You know how he loves to lead you on.” Gemma sings at him.

“He doesn’t lead me on.” Harry huffs in return. “And mustard really isn’t your color.”

Gemma rolls her eyes as she puts back the dress she had just been holding up. “I was looking at the cut of the hem.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“He does to lead you on,” she continues, ignoring the requisite sibling jab. Harry gets as far as opening his mouth to defend Louis before Gemma shushes him with a wave of her hand. “What about the ring he gave you? The first one?”

It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes now — because really, it’s not like that. Not at all. Louis hadn’t ‘led him on’ in that instance. It was just Louis having a bit of fun, was all.

A fond smile finds its way to Harry’s face as he looks down at his hands, clad in a wide assortment of rings — most of which Louis had bought him from various vintage shops and art fairs over the years. But it was the first one, the one he never ever took off, that his sister was referring to.

It was a promise ring of sorts — a simple silver band with the word ‘PEACE’ stamped into the metal — that Louis had given him the night before he left for uni and they’d be separated for the first time since they met, long distance added on top of a new relationship.

Except, Harry hadn’t known it was a ring at first, being packaged in a shirt box and weighted with small stones and all. He had tossed it on his dresser the next morning, miffed that Louis hadn’t done more than a stupid shirt and some kisses when it would be months before they saw each other in person again. It sat there for a week before he got around to opening it, and realized what it truly was.

With that in mind, perhaps Gemma had a point.

Maybe there was some ulterior motive to all this.

“I suppose you may have a point,” Harry finally concedes.

The more he considers the option, the more he feels his hopes rising at the possibility of a proposal on the horizon. Because, if you really think about it, it does make sense.

So when his return to the flat later that afternoon results in Louis scurrying away yet again (this time locking himself in the bathroom until Harry vacates the space), Harry can’t help but feel a bit giddy.

And, a week later, when he gets out of the shower to find Louis hunched over the bed, pleading for Harry to cover his eyes, Harry fights to withhold a grin as he folds an arm over his eyes and swears up and down that he isn’t peeking.

There’s only a few days until Christmas, and Harry wonders if he’ll get a Hallmark Christmas morning proposal — or if Louis would think that’s too cliche and do it before or after the holiday.

(Though, Harry secretly hopes it’s before; he’d love nothing more than to show off an engagement ring when they show up to his mum’s house on Christmas Day.)  
  


💚🧶💙

“Harold! Get up!”

Harry lets out a groan as small hands grab his shoulders and begin to shake him against the mattress.

“Har. Ry. Get. Up.”

He shifts a bit, trying to roll over and away from the incessant voice. But he’s stuck, a weight sitting down on him, keeping him from going anywhere.

“Get up, get up, get up,” the shaking stops just in time for one of Harry’s eyelids to be forcefully pried open, “get up!”

With a growl, Harry snatches the hand away from his face, blinking a few times to clear his vision. “What, Lewis? What on earth do you want?”

Louis just gives an innocent grin from where he’s perched on Harry’s stomach, straddling his waist over the covers. “It’s Sweater Day,” he says.

Harry glances over the to clock on the nightstand. “No, it’s seven in the morning. Go back to bed.” He tries to flip the man over and off of him, but Louis remains rooted to his spot, determined as ever.

“Seven in the morning, on _Sweater Day_ ,” he clarifies with a playful smack to Harry’s chest. “I’m cold and I want my sweater!”

Sweater Day wasn’t a specific day each year. It was whatever day, in the few days leading up to Christmas, that Louis decided he wanted his sweater and started nagging Harry for it.

Some years Louis was good and waited until the morning of his birthday. Other years he’d come in the door after the last final of the semester, toss his bag against the wall and demand his sweater. And Harry can never stay firm and say ‘no’ to Louis for very long, especially once cuddles and pleading baby blues are involved.

This year is no different, though Louis has managed to make it to the day before his birthday — Birthday Eve (as Louis calls it), or Christmas Eve Eve (as their friends call it, just to rile Louis up). Harry had been wondering when the man would be getting around to asking, though seven in the morning on a Saturday definitely was not on the list of possibilities..

“Bold of you to assume I made you yet another sweater.”

Louis rolls his eyes from where he’s seated. “You’re practically Mrs. Weasley. You knit me a sweater every single year. Now. I’m cold — practically freezing to death here — and I need the warmth only a hand knit sweater can provide.”

“You have a whole drawer of sweaters. I have a whole drawer of sweaters that you keep nipping from, put one of those on.”

“Those are old,” Louis huffs. “I need one with the love freshly stitched into it. It’s the only solution —Harry!.”

Harry takes the opportunity of catching his boyfriend off guard during his rant, flipping them over on the mattress and pinning the smaller boy beneath him. He nuzzles his face into Louis’ neck. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Gonna be an ice queen if I don’t get my sweater.”

“Let it go, Lou.” Harry chuckles as Louis lets out a groan. He shouldn’t be mad — he clearly set Harry up for that one. “In a little while. After breakfast. I’ll keep you warm until then.”

He manages to keep Louis content for another half hour, with snuggles and kisses, but eventually the man gets back to begging for the sweater. So Harry gets up, making them cups of coffee while Louis makes a beeline for the couch, practically vibrating with excitement. Harry hands over the box and sets their cups down on the coffee table, settling in to watch as Louis opens his gift.

There’s a squeal of delight as Louis rips the sweater out of its box (and every year Harry is still amazed and taken aback at the high pitch that comes out of the other man). “Yes! I was hoping it was this one! God I love the color! And it’s so soft!” He stands, giving Harry a kiss. “I love it so much, thank you, Haz.”

Harry smirks around his coffee cup as he watches Louis shed his shirt in lieu of the new article of clothing. He had stopped trying to hide the sweater making from Louis after their first year of living together, opting to just make multiple sweaters in front of the man and leave him guessingthe whole year as to which one was going to be his. He gets another kiss from the man as he sits down, along with a quick cuddle...

...before he starts digging behind the throw pillows?

Harry can’t help the confused expression as Louis ruffles behind the pillows, eventually pulling out what looks like a large wad of rumpled wrapping paper — with a small bow delicately perched on the top.

Louis beams as he holds out the — what Harry assumes is a — gift (Louis never was good at wrapping things, but he always gave it his best, bless his heart). “For me?” He asks, gingerly taking the package which has a bit of weight to it, soft, not solid, quite like a—

“Happy Sweater Day!” Louis is vibrating again, their knees hitting together as Louis’ legs bounce with clear excitement, his bare feet making little tappy-tappy noises against the hardwood floor.

Unsure of what he’ll find, Harry gently tears at the paper (no easy feat given Louis must have used at least half a roll of tape on this thing), revealing knit fabric and... dear god.

This definitely is not an engagement ring of any sorts. He’s going to wring Gemma’s neck for planting the idea in his head like that.

“Do you like it?” Louis asks before Harry even finishes pulling the sweater out from its Christmas paper casing.

“It’s just, it’s, I’m speechless.” Harry does his best to plaster a happy grin on his face — the surprised look needs no assistance.“It’s... well, it’s amazing, Lou.”

Amazingly awful, more like.

He can see Louis preening at the remark from the corner of his eye as he holds out the sweater, taking it in from top to bottom, cuff to cuff. The collar is all too familiar. He remembers spending three straight hours sitting by Louis’ side, helping cast it on over and over because the damn thing kept twisting.

Looks like Louis didn’t fall off the knitting bandwagon after all.

The collar is done well, Harry can give it that. But everything after that... well...

Harry honestly doesn’t know where to begin. There’s so many colors in the garment, it’s like someone had grabbed random yarn without a second thought each time they needed a new ball. There’s green and red and pale purple, and the bottom of the sweater has some sort of motif — snowflakes? Reindeer? Pigeons? The fabric was so puckered it was really anyone’s guess as to what the picture was supposed to be. One of the sleeves was half grey and pink stripes, half yellow. The other was three quarters orange with the rest blue.

“I,” Harry’s heart sinks as he sees Louis still giddy with delight beside him. He’s so proud of this... this... sweater. And Harry can’t break his boy’s heart. He just can’t. “I love it Lou. It looks handmade — did you make this? For me? I thought you gave up?”

“Wanted to surprise you.” Louis beams. “You really like it?”

Well, he’s certainly surprised alright, to say the least. “Of course. Absolutely love it.” This time he gives Louis a kiss, the boy giggling beneath his lips.

“Put it on, out it on! Wanna see.”

Harry does his best to hide the dread he’s feeling, but obliges, shucking off his rumpled sleep shirt and pulling the sweater over his head. He almost chokes, the neck being a bit tight even as he runs his finger along the inside, the cast-on edge refusing to budge as it digs into his windpipe. He had helped Louis with this collar assuming it was for Louis and his smaller frame and not his own.

Another squeal of delight erupts from beside him as Harry gets hugged once again. “Now we both have a handmade sweater!”

“We certainly do,” Harry cheerily grits through his teeth as he places a few kisses to the top of Louis’ head.

“And we can wear them to dinner tonight! Both of us!”

Oh shit, that’s tonight.

Harry feels the panic rise in his chest. He forgot all about the dinner party they have with their friends every year around the holidays (and by holidays, he means Christmas and a particular petite boyfriend’s birthday). Zayn’s hosting this year, and Harry forgot to buy half the ingredients for the dessert he’s bringing, as well as the wine, and now he has to wear this ugly sweater and pretend there’s nothing wrong.

Louis is still giddy at his sweater being worn as Harry excuses himself to the bedroom.

“There’s a mirror behind the door. Wanna get a better look at this gorgeous sweater you made me.” Harry kisses the man again, leaving him in a fit of giggles as he rushes to their bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

He doesn’t turn around right away, just stands with the door shut to his back.

Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe it looks better being worn than held up. Maybe with the right pair of slacks he can pull the look off. Add a statement necklace, some earrings perhaps. They say shoes make the outfit, really.

But all hope fades as he turns around, looking himself over.

Harry gives a disapproving scowl at his reflection and turns a bit in either direction. It isn’t just the colors that make this sweater awful, he realizes. It’s the sweater itself.

The too-tight collar leads to an okay-fitting chest, but the sweater suddenly balloons out beneath the sleeves (too many stitches picked up in the armpits — rookie mistake). Then it suddenly pinches back in thanks to the tightly stitched motif (he still isn’t entirely sure what it’s supposed to be), and flares out once more — the bottom ribbing so much looser than the fabric before it. The left sleeve barely reaches his wrist while the right is a perpetual sweater paw.

Which, okay, that’s fixable. Cuff the sleeves to an even length on his forearms. And the collar’s fixable too — just a quick snip in the back and whipstitch the edges and he’ll be able to breathe.

As for the rest of it, well, one thing’s for sure.

Not even his pearls can save this sweater.  
  


💚🧶💙

Zayn lives in the building across the street, which while convenient most of the time to run between flats on game nights or to snag a movie from one another’s collections, tonight it bites Harry in the ass.

“You’re not wearing it.”

Louis’ voice is tinged with disappointment as he helps Harry slide his jacket offonce inside the flat, their quick greetings with Liam, at the door, and Zayn, shouting from the kitchen, out of the way.

“Oh,” Harry looks down at his sweater — one of the ones he made himself, a plain lavender color similar to one he once made Louis, but a cardigan with chunky cables and, well, better fitting. He may have purposely worn this sweater in an attempt to pretend that he grabbed the wrong one and put it on. “Must have grabbed the wrong one.”

Louis says nothing more — which, for Louis, is louder than words — just presses his lips into a line as he sets the jacket on a hanger and puts it on the rod in the coat closet next to his own.

Harry sighs and catches the door as Louis shuts it, pushing it back open. “Not used to you making me sweaters I guess.” He gives the smaller man a smile as he pulls his jacket back out, threading his arms through the sleeves. “It’s just across the street, I’ll pop back and change. Be right back.”

When the man’s eyes light up at that, Harry feels as though a knife twists in his chest. As much as he doesn’t want to wear the sweater — doesn’t want to be caught dead with it on around anyone, not even their friends — he knows he has to trek back home and put the blasted thing on.

Because it would make Louis happy.

And Harry often wonders if his sole purpose in life is making Louis happy.

Because he loves nothing more than making Louis happy.

He gives the man a quick peck to the cheek, brushing past Liam carrying glasses of wine as he heads for the door.

“Not a word,” Harry hisses to Liam later, after he’s let himself back into the flat. He quickly unzips his jacket, tossing it to Liam as he eyes Louis over the man’s shoulder, sitting on the couch with a glass of wine watching a footie match.

Liam tries to speak, but only manages to open and close his mouth a few times as he looks Harry over.

“Lou made it,” is all Harry says.

Finally, Liam nods. “Ah. Makes sense, then.” He pauses, hand hovering over one of the coat hangers. “Wait, since when does Louis knit?”

Harry opts to ignore the question, sending a little wave to Louis who finally notices his return from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch — now sporting an adorably scrunched nose as he spots the sweater hanging (and clinging, in some areas) on his frame. “Zayn still in the kitchen?”

“Naturally.” Liam rolls his eyes, closing the door to the closet. “Been in there all day. I ordered takeaway for lunch I’m too afraid to step in there.”

“So your suggestion of catering didn’t go over well, I take?”

“‘Never in my kitchen! Are you insane? Why would you even suggest such a thing?’ I mean, really.” Liam does a startlingly good impression of Zayn’s accent as he picks up his glass of wine, waving it about as he retreats to the living room, leaving Harry to find his way to the kitchen.

It’s not far, just around the corner of the tiny flat, laid out similarly to his own. He finds Zayn in the middle of the space, darting about; stirring pots, pinching pie dough, darting cabinet to cabinet.

“Isn’t this a bit much?” Harry asks, once he knows Zayn has noticed his presence so as not to startle him, as he plucks a carrot slice off a nearby cutting board and eats it.

“First off, Niall’s coming, so, no. Second,” Zayn doesn’t even look up, just keeps flitting about, working on everything at once, “I’m taking some dishes with to Li’s family tomorrow. Figured I might as well make them now, everything’s out and the kitchen’s already a mess.”

Harry shrugs. “Good point,” he replies as he slides past the other man, taking up residence at a different cutting board, one with half cut pieces of celery and gets to finishing the task for his friend. He wonders how Zayn manages an entire restaurant kitchen, when his own is always such a mess of pots and pans and random spice jars. An artist at work, he supposes.

It isn’t long before the comfortable silence is abruptly ended by a metal spoon clattering to the ground.

“What the bloody hell are you wearing?”

Harry glances up from his work, finding Zayn staring at him from the stove, eyes wide as he takes in Harry’s attire for the evening.

“Lou made it,” Harry grumbles. “I have no choice.”

“Oh. Well. Want me to toss some gravy on it then? So you have an excuse to go change?” Zayn wiggles the dripping ladle in one hand as he stirs another pot with his other.

Harry ponders the thought for a moment. It would look like an innocent accident, helping Zayn in the kitchen and the sweater getting ruined in the process.

“No, no. It’s fine. I just have to make it through tonight, then I never have to wear this thing out of the house ever again.” Harry sighs. “It means a lot to Lou. He worked so hard on it.”

“You’re a good man, Harry Styles.” Zayn shakes his head with a smile as he returns to stirring the pots on the stove. “Goodness knows if Liam gave me something like that he’d never hear the end of it until he brought me a proper gift — hurt feelings or no.”

“But if you gave him something like this, heaven help him if he ever took it off?” Harry slides the cut celery into a bowl with a grin.

“Damn right, Styles.”  
  


💚🧶💙

“Stop your worrying, all you beautiful people. The main course has arrived!”

Niall’s voice booms through the tiny flat an hour or so later, just as the table is finished being set, having let himself in with a key no one remembers giving him but lets him keep anyway.

“That is one man I refuse to eat out.” Zayn mumbles as he rolls his eyes, setting a casserole dish down on the last remaining hot pad, paying no mind as Liam suddenly chokes on his intake of air.

Niall is always the last to arrive to any of their dinners, effectively avoiding any cooking or manual labor, usually (like tonight) conveniently showing up just as they’re ready to sit down and eat. Sometimes Harry wonders if the man waits outside the door, listening in for the perfect moment to come flying through.

Which is probably why they never let Niall host, Harry assumes, as the man would most likely show up at the last minute to his own flat expecting a fully cooked meal ready to go.

Harry can hear Niall’s boisterous greetings to their friends as he returns from another trip to the kitchen, grabbing a few more napkins and flatware for the table. Upon rounding the corner, he finds the Irishman twirling around, a disgruntled Louis slung over his shoulder demanding to be put down.

(And by ‘demand’, he means a lengthy string of expletives and death threats being spewed that would make a sailor run home to his mummy.)

Niall finally caves, setting Louis down and laughing as he receives a smack to the head for his antics.

“You’re lucky he didn’t bite you.” Harry chuckles in return as he sets the items down on the corner of the table.

“One time, Haz! One time!” Louis remarks from where he’s taken shelter behind Liam. “Besides, ‘s was a bad angle.”

“There’s my Harold! Come here, you—,” Niall turns around, pausing as his eyes finally land on Harry. “Oh my god.”

Time freezes for a moment as Harry can almost hear what is about to come out of the man’s mouth. Niall lacks any sort of filter, even at his best behaved of moments, and this definitely isn’t the best of moments: surrounded by friends in a casual atmosphere. Harry’s eyes widen, knowing what’s about to happen, sees the scene play out before it even begins, hears the words that are about to be said.

He could have prevented this whole chain of events, is the thing. He’s known Niall long enough to know how the man is. Could have texted Niall not to say a word about the sweater — had planned on texting Niall, actually, but got distracted by the gorgeous view of Louis sipping wine on the couch from the kitchen.

Harry could have.

Harry should have.

But Harry didn’t.

“What thrift store clearance bin did you pull that atrocity out of, H?” Niall wheezes, doubling over from laughing so hard.

Harry stands frozen, his eyes darting to where Louis still stands behind Liam, trying to figure out his reaction. But Louis is just as frozen as he is, staring at Niall, face blank, lips pressed thin.

They all stand there, holding their collective breaths in that moment. Everyone except Niall, whose laughter is the only sound in the entire flat — the entire building, the entire universe at this moment.

“Didn’t know we were doing an ugly sweater party this year! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Harry should say something, anything. He needs say something. Needs to defend the sweater. Needs to defend Louis. Needs to get Niall to shut up _now_ , to at least try and do some damage control before it’s too late.

But by time Harry’s mouth syncs with his brain and he opens it ready to speak, Louis is already gone, sprinting to the door without a word, the door slamming behind him, shaking the walls, the dinnerware on the table.

“Shit,” Harry curses as he turns, and without thinking twice he’s out the door himself and hot on Louis’ tail, leaving Liam and Zayn to deal with Niall.

“What? Did I say something?” Harry hears Niall’s muffled voice from behind the closed door, Liam’s too (“ _You bloody idiot!_ ”), but he has a bigger problem at the moment.   
  


He catches a flash of straw-yellow at the end of the hall and sprints after it, thankful for long legs that always let him catch up to Louis quickly, no matter how hard the other boy runs. He throws his arms around the older man, pulling him back just as he’s about to descend the stairs.

“The fuck? Harry let me go.” Louis tries to pull away, but Harry keeps his grip tight around his shoulders.

“No, Lou. Please come back. Niall didn’t mean — doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Please?” He nuzzles his cheek into the soft brown hair in an attempt to, somehow, convince Louis to stay and forget what just happened. At least, that’s what Harry is trying to convey with the cuddle, anyway. “Zayn made your favorite—.”

“I don’t care. Let me go.” He tries once again to shake Harry off, but given the size difference the attempt is futile at best. “And take that stupid thing off.”

Harry’s heart breaks at those words. Just this morning Louis was so proud of this sweater, so happy for Harry to wear it. “No, I—I like it. Love it, actually.”

“Bullshit. That thing’s ugly as sin. Take it off.” Louis shifts around a bit in his cage, before slumping in defeat. “Look, if I promise not to run off, will you let go?”

Harry considers for a moment before turning them around and releasing Louis, his body blocking the stairs going down, leaving the ascending stairs or the hallway back to the flat as the only options for escape. But Louis doesn’t attempt to get by, just takes a seat on the stairs going up, his head in his hands.

“Never should have gave it to you. Shoulda listened to Lottie, tried to tell me how awful it was but I wouldn’t listen. Stupid pride.” Louis gives a little sniffle as Harry sits beside him, squishing him against the wall a bit because he knows how Louis likes that — being in tiny, cozy spaces. “Shoulda stuck with a bottle of perfume, like usual.”

“No, Lou it’s not...” Harry looks down at the sweater and, deciding against all reason, goes with the truth. He’s in a hole already, thanks to Niall and his own lack of thought, might as well keep digging his grave. “Okay. Yeah. It’s ugly as sin. But that’s not the point.”

Louis quirks his brow as he swipes at a fallen tear with the back of his hand.

“The point is you made it for me, and only me. You put the time and the effort into this, and I know how hard of a time you were having learning how to knit, and that’s why I love it. Because you persevered and made it for me anyway.” He nudges the other man’s shoulder to gain his full attention, the tears in his eyes pricking at Harry’s heart as their eyes meet. “I love it so much, Lou. Just like I love you. Thank you.”

He presses his lips to Louis’ cheek and is rewarded with a grin (and a sniffle, but Harry regards it as a happy little sniffle) as Louis looks back to his hands in his lap.

“It’s just,” Louis says after a bit of them sitting in silence on the stairs, “I had this idea in my head, you know? And in my head it was grand and beautiful and perfect, taking all the colors of the sweaters you’ve made me—.”

“Wait, what?” Harry looks down at the sweater, at the blocks of what were random colors, but are now suddenly registering as something else entirely.

“Yeah. All the sweaters you’ve given me. I wanted to put them all into one sweater so I got colors just like them — or, as close as I could find anyway. It sounded like such a good idea, because they’re all so lovely on their own. Guess I didn’t think how badly they’d clash when put together.”

And, Harry can see it now. Can see each of the sweaters being represented in his own. The lavender one from last year, the red from the year before that. The grey and pink one from the first year they lived together, and the stunning blue of the very first sweater he ever made his boyfriend. Plus all the others, they’re in there too. He’s in utter awe, because how had he not noticed?

“I love all your sweaters, Haz. They make me feel special, loved,” Louis continues as Harry has his revelation. “And I wanted to do the same for you. Show you how much I love you for making them for me, every Christmas without fail. My own Mrs. Weasley.”

Harry grins at that, wants to make a joke about how he’s collecting all the characters now, but he doesn’t have the chance.

“And—And I thought it’d be nice and, you know, fitting, for both of us to have a handmade sweater when I, well, you know...”

“When you what?” Harry places another kiss to the man’s cheek right then, eyes closed and pressing his face into the side of the other’s out of happiness, completely missing the act of Louis slipping his hand into his pocket for a moment, pulling out a little black box.

“When I ask you to marry me.”  
  


💚🧶💙

_Harry gnaws at his lip as he stares at the sweater in his hands. The more he looks at it, the more he cringes on the inside._

_It’s awful, is what it is. Louis deserves the best, and only the best, and this sweater... definitely isn’t the best._

_He first noticed that the cuffs were uneven (by only a couple rows, sure, but they were still uneven when put side by side) as he was darning the ends there. Then, upon closer inspection, it became clear he hadn’t sewn one of the sides evenly and it was puckering, and there were a few improperly placed stitches on the back as well as a dropped stitch he managed to catch — thought the fix wasn’t pretty. And the longer he stared at it, the more he doubted that he picked the right color. Did Louis even like blue? Was it creepy to make a sweater in a color that matched your boyfriend’s eyes?_

_Harry honestly didn’t know._

_What he did know was that this was awful, and he needed another Christmas slash birthday gift for his boyfriend. Now. On Christmas Eve._

_“We’re here! Now get out of the car.”_

_Harry ignores his sister’s cheery voice, still staring at the sweater as he turns it over yet again. Oh look, yet another lump from a bad stitch._

_“Harry.” Gemma pokes him in the arm. “Get out.”_

_“No. No, I can’t give him this. I can’t. We have to go get something else.” Harry blurts out, scrunching the sweater in his hands. Maybe he’ll just get Louis a gift card — that’s an acceptable gift for a first Christmas together. A simple, generic gift card. “There’s a petrol station at the end of the street. They sell gift cards, don’t they?”_

_“We aren’t going anywhere. We’ve been spotted. Your boyfriend’s doing that creepy love-stare thing at you from the window.” Gemma nods her head and Harry looks up and, yeah, there Louis is, peeking out from the curtains, his eyes trained on the car. Harry gives him a weak little wave. “Besides, what’s wrong with that? You’ve been fussing over this sweater for weeks. Why don’t you want to give it to him?”_

_“It’s horrible!” He shakes the sweater, the sleeves flopping about. “There’s at least ten things wrong with it and I keep finding more. The color is awful. And — and what if he hates it? Maybe he doesn’t even like wearing sweaters! What if it’s too much for a first Christmas with someone, too much —.”_

_“Harry,” Gemma sighs as she gently plucks the article of clothing from her younger brother’s hands, folding it in her lap as she speaks. “If Louis well and truly loves you then he will love this sweater because not only is it from you, but you made it for him. You put your time and love into a piece that any other person could have just bought at the shops — you created this out of almost nothing, just for Louis. And if he doesn’t see that, doesn’t appreciate that, then he isn’t worth your time.”_

_With an encouraging smile, Gemma slides the sweater back into its gift bag, fluffing the tissue paper before handing it back._

_“Now off with you already! I’ve got a date with some hot chocolate and a sappy Christmas moviethat I need to get to. Go on. Get.”_

_Harry reluctantlysays his goodbyes as Gemma pulls away, leaving him on the Tomlinson’s front lawn. When he turns, he finds the front door already propped open and Louis’ head peering out, a grin plastered to his face. Harry gives him a small wave as he gathers his things and bounds up the lawn._

_“Mm, hello, love. Missed you.” Louis gives a peck to Harry’s cheek as he shuts the door behind them. “Mum and the girls popped out to the store quick, so I’ve got you all to myself for a few minutes.”_

_Harry can’t help but giggle as Louis continues to pepper his face with kisses, cold fingers tickling the skin just under his shirt._

_“Missed you too,” Harry finally manages after his boyfriend finally finishes with a kiss to the lips. “Here. Um. Happy birthday, Lou. Or merry Christmas, I guess. Whatever you want.”_

_After a quick internal debate, Harry holds the bag toward Louis. Might as well, he figured. At least Louis’ family wasn’t around to witness the tragedy that was about to unfold. And Gemma wasn’t too far off yet, he could text her to come rescue him and she may actually turn around and come back for him._

_“Oh, if only everyone gave me an option instead of lumping my gifts together.” Louis laughs as he snatches the bag, haphazardly pulling out the tissue paper and letting it fall to the ground. “‘M not waiting. Gonna open it now cause I can’t wait to see—.”_

_The sudden silence puts a knot in Harry’s stomach. He dares a glance to his boyfriend who stands, arms outstretched as he holds the sweater open._

_Definitely that bad. Well then._

_“Haz, did you... did you make this?”_

_Louis’ voice is quiet, Harry’s response of ‘yes’ even quieter as he stares down at the toes of his shoes, really wishing in this moment he hadn’t listened to Gemma and got Louis something else._

_“You really made this? For me?”_

_Before Harry can open his mouth to apologize for the atrocious gift, he finds himself stumbling a step backwards as Louis clears the space between them, pulling Harry into a bone crushing hug._

_“Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much, I love it.” Louis steps back and — again, before Harry can even utter a word — he’s pulling off his hoodie, tossing it to the side and sliding the sweater over his head. He admires it on himself for a moment before grasping Harry’s face in both of his hands._

_“I love it.”_

_Kiss._

_“I love you.”_

_Kiss._

_“I am never taking this off.”_

_Kiss._

_“Ever.”_

**Author's Note:**

> To read the other fabulous fics in the fest, please [click here!](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/1dchristmasfest2020)
> 
> PS: I’m finally on Twitter! Come follow me under the same name, @ armadillosunset :)


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